


it takes two (to make a thing go right)

by a_different_equation



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, Great Hiatus, Grief/Mourning, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Season/Series 02, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock Holmes' Protegée, Texting, Two Idiots in love But THEY'RE OURS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25088992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: What could happen in 10 days? Apparently, in no chronologically order:- a meeting with Scarlet (the clue is in the name)- an exclusive interview with the BBC- drunk texting with Mycroft Holmes- a first time, a first kiss, and twice “I love you”- oh, and Sherlock Holmes’ returnWhat didn’t happen? What John Watson originally had planned on day 221.Experimental format (ch1 = 100 words, ch2 = 200 words, and so on). Part of #10YearsOfSherlock
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 102
Kudos: 72
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	1. Moving Out (Moving On)

**Author's Note:**

> It’s 10 years of SHERLOCK, so what better way to celebrate the anniversary than in posting fan fiction? 
> 
> In particular, a fan fiction that was original written and posted only 8 years ago, and now, it will be able to be read in English for the very first time. 
> 
> Fandom is diverse, and that includes people from all over the world too. 
> 
> I’m a little bit anxious, excited, and bloody terrified, but it’s time to bring my most experimental piece of writing (and translating in this case) to Ao3. 
> 
> Basically: chapter 1 got 100 words, chapter 2 has 200 words, etc. And if you think it’s a challenge to write in my native tongue, let me tell you, it’s ten times worse in English. However, as it’s the translation of my own fic, it means all is written, ergo: updates daily.
> 
> Welcome to “it takes two (to make a thing go right)”!

Day 221, moving day.

John Watson was boxing up the last items in Baker Street. All help offered by friends had been stubbornly declined.

While stuffing his clothes into a bag, he made a mental note to go on a shopping trip soon. It made him anxious to imagine himself strolling through London, wearing his trademark jumper, without Sherlock Holmes at his side.

Instead of his illegal handgun, he wanted to leave the cane behind.

John released his fist that had subconsciously cramped into a ball and refused to cry. 

The doorbell rang. Short, once, with pressure. Like a client.

  
  
  



	2. It's Just A Girl (Not Sherlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to "it takes two (to make a thing go right)"!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left kudos and/or a comment. It means a lot. 
> 
> Let's see who's at the door, shall we?

“Hi.”

A girl stood in the door, maybe fourteen years old. She had dark, short, curly hair. Sherlock Holmes would have said, _Solid analysis, John, but I had hoped you would have gone deeper_. 

John cleared his throat.

“Can I help you?”

John used to have a smile that had put people at ease. Since Sherlock’s death it had vanished. His therapist, Ella, had suggested in his last session that it had died with him. John hadn’t corrected her.

“Is this 221b Baker Street?”

John nodded. 

In his mind, the memory replayed, _My name is Sherlock Holmes. The address is 221b Baker Street._ It had been the starting point, ending today with John’s final move: when he would have cleared out the fridge ( _It’s an experiment!)_ and sent the skull to Mycroft ( _A friend of mine, well, when I say friend…_ ), then a professional team hired by Mrs Hudson would fix the shooting holes in the wall ( _Boring!_ ).

Soon, 221b would have new tenants. It was for the best, or so Ella had argued. 

“You aren’t Sherlock.” It was the girl who brought John back. She wore a coat like Sherlock’s. 

“No, I don’t think I am.”

“So, where’s Sherlock?”


	3. One Last Case (One Last Miracle)

John Watson, war veteran, army doctor, blogger, flatmate and partner of the world’s only consulting detective wished Sherlock Holmes to not be dead. 

How often he had begged for another miracle he couldn’t recall. Apparently, he couldn’t trade _Please, God, let me live_ for _Let him live, take me instead_ , no matter how often he offered himself up. 

One last time, he would try to solve a mystery on his own. He blocked out all thoughts about _The Blind Banker_ and asked the girl in. 

* * *

She went straight to the sofa, sitting in a position reminding John of Sherlock, more lying on the furniture than anything. However, she declined the offer for tea and biscuits.

Now, she fixed John with a glare, and it wouldn’t have surprised John if she uttered, _Don’t be boring_.

“Obviously.”

“Obviously?”

John had a déja-vue from too many and far too few crime scenes. He ignored the heart ache and forced himself to smile which went more smoothly.

“You’re John Watson. You were shot in Afghanistan and returned back to London. There, you joined Sherlock Holmes into his personal battle field. Your imminent tremor in your hand is prominent once more because you believe to have failed him. Oh, and as your shoes show: you’re far from a confirmed bachelor.”

John felt the almost-welcoming mix of wonder and rage bubbling up inside himself. Since Sherlock’s death he hadn’t felt like that again.

Only Mycroft had managed it as John blamed him to a degree as well. Yet, the older Holmes hadn’t set one foot in 221b since the fateful day.

“And you.. You are linked to…” It still hurt so much to simply say his name aloud. “Sherlock. How?”

“I’m his protégée. However, I believe the man at the door can explain it all better.”  
  



	4. Welcome back (Welcome Home)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The girl’s name is intentional. It might not even be her real name. When I posted the story 8 years ago, no one made the connection. Who knows, maybe your second name is Sherlock...^^?

It wasn’t Angelo this time but Mycroft. His smile interpreted John instantly as “punch-me-in-the-face”. It took all his willpower to act politely.

“John.”

“Mycroft.”

John could concede the point that the ever-present umbrella could be useful today: November was approaching. Clouds had darkened the sky all-day, and around midday the drizzle had turned into heavy rain. In the evening a fog had set over the city. Now, it was a dark and stormy night. It would be heartless to let a man stand longer than necessary on the doorstep, but John was tempted. 

Inside — and John refused to acknowledge his newly developed habit to count the stairs leading to 221b — Mycroft’s gaze swept over the half-packed boxes in the living room.

Oh God, how John resented the barely hidden praise in Sherlock’s brother's eyes. 

“Surely, you have questions.”

John was furious. First, because it was almost an echo of Sherlock’s first sentence during their first cab ride, and he wouldn’t put it past that bastard that he did it on purpose. Second, because the older Holmes had always claimed that he would worry about him, Sherlock, which had to be another lie. Because, and that was the third and final reason, he had used his own brother as a pawn in a game with Moriarty. Yet, John pushed back his emotions, but barely.

Oh yeah, _welcome back_ , etc.

Probably sensing John’s inner state, Mycroft picked up the conversation. 

“This girl, let’s call her Scarlet, should we?” Pointing at her with his umbrella, not really waiting for her or John’s reaction, Mycroft continued. “Scarlet is — one might say — the last wish of my late brother. And as we all know how much you cared for him, I believe it to be no hardship to take her in. I will cover all expenses, of course.”

In a flash, John remembered: _A note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leaving a note…_

If it was any other man, John would call it all crazy, and yet...? 

Sherlock deduced John’s life story at first glance, while believing Harry to be his brother. Sherlock himself had announced that he didn’t sleep, eat and talk for days on end and that he played the violin, but John had to find out about him being an ex-junkie via a drug bust. Sherlock only knew the truth about his married-to-my-work-speech.

So, maybe Scarlet was indeed Sherlock’s final words.

  
  



	5. A Study In Pink (A Study In Scarlet)

John learned quickly that living with Scarlet wasn’t so much different to living with Sherlock. 

Scarlet didn’t offer her help to put things from the boxes back to their rightful places. Instead she dropped her few belongings into Sherlock’s bedroom and declared it hers. 

However, what she did do, frequently, was to observe and to deduce. Small mercy that she wasn’t the blurt out-type (yet), so she kept quiet when she spotted the Cluedo in his possession. Neither did she ask about Sherlock’s experiments, nor inquire about the PSE poster hanging over Sherlock’s bed. 

John wouldn’t be surprised if suddenly a new batch of thumbs, heads and other body parts had appeared in the fridge.

She was a curious git, but more of the Sherlockian variety. Therefore, he wasn’t too shocked when he just caught himself before brushing over her curls when he discovered her in Sherlock’s bed that night, curled up in a ball. Instead he vowed to himself to stop his nightly routine of checking in Sherlock’s bedroom.

* * *

  
The next morning, 222 days since Sherlock’s death. 

John had just urged Scarlet to drink a cup of tea, when Mrs Hudson announced herself with a knock. 

“Hello, John. I just saw the light… I don’t want to stay long, but I just wanted to say…”

She stopped mid-sentence, having finally spotted the girl at the table. Her facial expression reminded John immediately of _Sherlock, what have you done…_ -episodes, so he couldn’t help but smile.

“Mrs. Hudson? This is Scarlet. Scarlet. This is Mrs Hudson, our landlady.” Oh, and it couldn’t be only him who was flooded with memories of first introductions, _Dr. John Watson_ and _He’s with me_. “Scarlet is Sherlock’s protegée. She will be living here from now on, I hope that’s alright with you? I would have come downstairs today...”

Originally, he had wanted to move out on the 1st, so John was anxious for a second of her reactions. However, it remained true what Sherlock once had proclaimed: _Mrs Hudson leaving Baker Street? England would fall!_

She was more than a landlady or a housekeeper, and she proved it again on that day as she switched over to a mother figure in a heartbeat. Instantly, she says, “I’ll bring some biscuits.” On her way through the door, she promised a cake, “but just this once, mind you, to celebrate.”

“She seems nice.”

One used to be Sherlock Holmes or his protegée to articulate the word _nice_ with hesitation. John registered that his smile grew broader the minute.

He couldn’t have imagined that his muscles could still manage this movement, but here he was: sitting at the table in 221b with a teenager, smiling. If John hadn’t have been on so many adventures with Sherlock Holmes by his side, he would have called himself insane. However, apparently, living with Sherlock Holmes had his perks, one, to never be startled by unannounced house guests.

“You liked him. No wonder that he asked me to look after you.”

  
  



	6. The Feels (The Fall)

John Watson had called Sherlock Holmes many names. 

The ones that counted, John had kept to himself. He had hoped that the detective would deduce them one day, but no such luck. So, “love”, “darling man”, and “gorgeous bastard” remained unsaid. Instead the blogger had praised the detective for his work, showering him with “Fantastic”, “Brilliant” and “Amazing”. It wasn’t the same as, “I love you”. 

God, how John wished to have said something. 

Now, all John had were regrets and memories from the golden days of their partnership. They weren’t two against the rest of the world anymore, but a lonely man whose love of his life only existed as an echo in his head. 

How could something so right had gone so terribly wrong? 

Sherlock had warned John during _The Hounds of the Baskerville_ that he wasn’t a hero because heroes don’t exist, and if they do, he wouldn’t be one of them. 

John hadn’t believed it back then, and that hadn’t changed. Sherlock Holmes was on the side of the angels, and heaven had needed one, when he had jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s. 

John Watson always believed in Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

“Sherlock told you to… look over me?” 

Scarlet’s _obviously_ was the perfect imitation of Sherlock’s trademark reply. 

It was like a blow to his head, a punch in his stomach, like rushing over to help, frantically searching for his pulse. Forever replaying in his head, _he is my friend_ , now rewriting into _he was my friend_. 

It took John far too long that the whispered “Sherlock”, repeating as if it was a prayer, was his own doing. 

* * *

A fresh cup of tea sat in front of him when he resurfaced. One of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits had found their way onto his plate as well. It was Scarlet’s doing, she, who apparently waited calmly until a middle-aged man had a full crasp on his wits again. 

_Who was Scarlet?_

John Watson was no Sherlock Holmes. He remained, as Sherlock had put it so nicely once, an idiot. Yet, he had never received insults like Anderson or Donovan or Wilkes or all of John’s ex-girlfriends. 

Sherlock had not only tolerated him, but treated him as a partner. He was the one Sherlock had brought to crime scenes, and even when he was always vocal about John’s romanticism of their cases, he had read and commented on his blog posts religiously. 

And how had he called him in Dartmoor? _A conductor of light?_

Apparently, John Watson hadn’t been very bright recently because the partner of Sherlock Holmes should have taken more interest in the sudden appearance of a strange girl at the doorstep of 221b. In particular, if one took her name and the timing in consideration. 

It was his medical knowledge that put him on Scarlet’s track: “You’re one of Sherlock’s irregulars.” He put a mental note to send her to Mike for a check up, also to conspire with Mrs Hudson to feed her up. “Why did Sherlock ask you to look after me?”

Scarlet smiled, looking a bit proud as if she was a pleased teacher whose student finally solved a complex puzzle. 

Before answering, she snatched another of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits, apparently addicted to sweets like Sherlock. She dipped it into the milk, and John just caught himself before scolding her, reminding himself at the last minute that he used to love it too when about Scarlet’s age.

“Wrong question. You should ask yourself: How is it possible that Sherlock asked me to look after you, when everyone believes him to be dead.”


	7. A Special (Someone Special)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy #10YearsOfSherlock
> 
> Today, 10 years ago “A Study in Pink” aired on the BBC. A show that has its flaws and a fandom that has its drama as well, and yet, I think we all agree that the show and our fandom are both pretty damn special.
> 
> I don’t know if the BBC will do anything for its once so iconic show, but we’ll certainly celebrate: them and us. And if they don’t, let’s just say... I came prepared ^^
> 
> A little special, a totally fictional BBC interview, the game is STILL on!
> 
> Ade

**Scarlet: Sherlock Holmes’ incarnate (exclusive)**

**BBC** : How was it for you, Dr. Watson, when you heard that Sherlock Holmes has got a protegée? And one that was so similar to him? Wasn’t that a huge shock for you? 

**Dr. John H. Watson** : Shock?... No, I wouldn’t call it that. First, I was baffled. Yes, that might be an accurate term.

  
Listen, when you’ve been together with Sherlock for such a long time… when you’ve worked alongside him, as a partner, living together even... You think that nothing can really catch you unguarded. But that’s bullshit, obviously.

So, yes, I wasn’t actually shocked but surprised. And maybe I was even a bit pissed in the beginning, but hey, it’s Sherlock we’re talking about.

So, it’s all fine.

* * *

**Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, New Scotland Yard** : And for you, DI Lestrade? How was it for you? You’ve worked with Sherlock Holmes for almost a decade, and almost two years together with Dr. Watson. How do you feel, in particular, in the aftermath of proving his innocence publicly?

 **Lestrade** : When Dr. Watson showed up for the first time with Scarlet in tow, I was surprised.

Real talk: I feared that he blackmailed me into it because of my guilt. Technically, I knew, we all knew, that Moriarty was to blame for Sherlock’s death, but it isn’t so easy when you’re personally involved.

I might be a copper, but Sherlock’s was my friend. 

* * *

**  
BBC:** Sergeant Donovan, you are part of DI Lestrade’s team. You were one of the first to voice doubt about Sherlock Holmes.

Only recently, in an official statement you distanced yourself from the allegiance you made against him, most prominently, him being a fraud.

It might be challenging to work again with Dr. Watson, and to get Scarlet as a sort-of-Sherlock-stand-in?

 **Sergeant Sally Donovan, New Scotland Yard:** If I approved that this freak — apologies — gifted manchild helped us for years? No, I didn’t.

He was successful, but that doesn’t mean that I approve of him. Until this day I believe that some of his conclusions were nothing but a magical trick.

However, people love this as much as John Watson’s poetic wanking on his blog.

It is what it is.

I’ve suggested to Dr. Watson that he should pick a new hobby, but he chose Scarlet. 

* * *

**BBC:** When I interpret your DI’s wording correctly, the topic of Sherlock Holmes involvement as a consultant didn’t go smoothly. 

**Lestrade:** Well, I have to be honest: Sherlock was special. But he is… Sherlock Holmes was a great man and in some ways even a great one.

* * *

**BBC:** “A good man and a great one”, do you agree, Mr. Anderson? And do you believe that Dr. Watson as a new consultant for the NSY can be a needed help?

 **Phillip Anderson, Forensics:** Help? Please,... a man who lived for years with a fraud and still believes in him? You don’t really believe that we need such people to do our work?

 **BBC:** What’s your opinion of the famous quote: “Shut up, Anderson, you lower the IQ of the whole street?”

 **Anderson:**...

* * *

**BBC:** Well, back to you, Dr. Watson. Your new professional title is as promising as it’s intriguing: Consulting Detective Assistant. Can you elaborate a bit about its meaning?

 **Watson:** It’s a homage to Sherlock Holmes, who called himself a consulting detective. He was the only one in the world, he invented the job.

I do what he did: I help the police when they’re out of their depth. And sometimes, Scarlet and her friends are the eyes and ears in the city we need to catch the culprit. 

* * *

**BBC:** And you approve of this, DI Lestrade?

 **Lestrade:** What should I say? They’re good at what they do. The work gives them purpose, too. It’s his legacy, and we are honoring him by continuing to make his London a safer place.

It might not be 100% what we wanted —because we wanted him to be with us —but it’s what we got. And getting our job done, locking up the baddies, might be exactly what we needed.

* * *

**BBC:** One last statement from you, Dr. Watson?

 **Watson:** There’s not one day when I don’t think of _him_.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that the cliffhanger isn’t revealed yet, but I think/hope you can forgive me as a special day needed a special chapter.
> 
> See you all tomorrow when the phase starts I love to read (and write) texting, oh yes, it’s #epistolary
> 
> Who might write and about what and to whom...?


	8. Burn It Down (Burn The Heart Out Of You)

John had believed it to be a smart idea: he had invited Mrs Hudson, Molly and Greg for the broadcast of the BBC interview. Even Scarlet could have be persuaded thanks to Mrs Hudson’s meddling and her excellent baking.

Afterwards he wanted to let the cat out of his bag. 

However, when the end credits rolled, Greg beat him to it.

“He would have liked it, John, wouldn’t he? God, he would hate it.”

“Sherlock? Probably, he would not only insult Anderson’s reputation but the reporter’s one as well.”

“You mean that he would deduce all the questions she wanted to ask and declared them dull or boring or both?”

“Something like that. Has the bastard ever told you how he convinced us to let him work on _A Study in Pink_? No... ? During our press conference with the whole media lot, whenever Donovan or I commented on something, all people in the crowd got the text with WRONG immediately. Never found out he had managed to pull that off…”

“John, is everything alright with you, dear? You look a bit peaky…”

Mrs Hudson sounded concerned, but John was falling long before.

The words left his mouth before John even registered it: “He isn’t dead.” Greg patted his back, missing the point, just like his landlady who’s looking worried. Scarlet’s expression was cryptic, it could be that she’s bored but also that she's cataloguing the body parts delivered by Molly in her head already. Molly… “You knew it!”

“Yes, he asked me to help him. He came to me...when he had to leave. I’m deeply sorry but Sherlock begged me to not tell anyone, especially you, John.”

“And how do you learn about it?” Greg’s voice was an echo of a trained copper, restricted emotion. 

“I told him, obviously.” Scarlet’s reply sounded not unlike Sherlock’s 101 towards police stupidity. “Sherlock asked me to give him a hint. Mycroft and I were against it. The plan was perfect, but Moriarty was correct on this account: Sherlock Holmes has a heart. He should have burned it.”

Mrs Hudson was crying silently into her handkerchief, which the DI had handed to her with a slightly apologetic expression. Molly opened her mouth every few seconds to start a sentence, but stopped repeatedly. John was a medical man but he couldn’t be arsed to give a diagnosis of his mental state at the moment.

Scarlet, however, sat in Sherlock’s chair and didn’t sense the elephant in the room. 

“But why all this?”

“Let’s enlighten you all, shall we? Sherlock faked his own death, exact 221 days after said incident, I appear, and as we learned already, by his plea. You don’t care about _how_ Sherlock did it, you care about the _why_. Apparently, there were three snippers, and if he didn’t jump three people would die, and one of them was you, Mrs Hudson. Don’t sniffle, yes, you’re some sort of a mother figure for him. One big found family, hurrah. And yes, another snipper was for you, Greg. And because you couldn’t probably solve one high profile case in a reasonable timeframe, I came into the picture. You should have listened to Mycroft, _For such a success rate one needed the help of Sherlock Holmes_. It’s in the name, _Scarlet_ , don’t you see? You were all told, but you didn’t listen. And, oh, yes, he’s grateful that you helped him, Molly, sentiment blabla. Any further questions?”

* * *

Scarlet was smart enough to vanish without further ado into her room. 

For a second or two John toyed with the idea to use Sherlock’s method of leaving off steam: shooting at the wall. However, he couldn’t bear to agitate Mrs Hudson further. She had witnessed far too much tonight already… Then he contemplated boxing up his things again and to get back on track with his original plan of moving out of 221b. 

Yet, he knew all too well that it wouldn’t change shit.

Because while the rooms had never looked as empty and deserted as tonight, they never had been. Leaving home isn’t easy, and apparently, even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t do it for good.

Since Scarlet’s final confirmation it was the elephant in the room: _he, John Watson, hadn’t ever been alone._

Everyone had seen it.

The innkeeper in Dartmoor who had apologized for not being able to offer them a double room. Angelo with his stupid candles. There were probably a dozen ongoing bets at the Yard. Every, “I’m not actually gay”.

Even after his presumed death and the appearance of Scarlet, there had been the constant denial. Now, it was shifting like quicksand, the “how did you fake your own death” to “why did you leave me alone, letting me grieve for months?”

_Do I mean so little to you, or so much?_


	9. A New Beginning (A Fresh Start)

His phone pinged. Rapidly, some texts emerged. A quick glance showed John that all were from the wrong Holmes.

> Dr Watson, this isn’t helping.
> 
> Should I explain the plan to you once more?
> 
> Surely you know that it wasn’t personal?
> 
> Dr Watson, what did you do to Scarlet?
> 
> John!

While a third glass followed a second, John pondered if he should switch his ringtone to Sherlock’s personalized one. His laughter was more giggling than anything else. Yes, he was definitely drunk. 

The clock announced the full hour, sixty minutes left until midnight. Then it would 232 days since Sherlock Holmes had jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s. 

However, it had been all a magic trick. 

Maybe there had been a puppet or a rope or a stunt double? And yet, Scarlet was right: John didn’t care about the _how_ , he wanted Sherlock to explain the _why_. Thanks to Scarlet he knew about the three snipers, and he could concede that Moriarty had needed to be stopped, but why didn’t he confide in John? Why did he let him grief? Why had he not trusted him and abandoned him instead?

John refused to cry, instead clinging to his drink. It burnt in his throat. Apparently, at one point his body couldn’t cope anymore. He crashed on the sofa. 

Minutes or hours later John woke up, gasping for breath. His heart was racing, feeling adrift and shaken. It hadn’t been the recurring nightmare of Sherlock’s death however that he had wished to escape, but the all-too-vivid imaginary of Sherlock and himself in bed together.

Halfway conscious, John grabbed the smartphone and started typing.

> You want to talk? I’m all ears.
> 
> At this time and hour and under this condition? Do you believe that to be wise, Dr. Watson?
> 
> Cut it, Mycroft. Spill.
> 
> I apologize for the events and how they concluded. This outcome wasn’t my intention.
> 
> Oh, the great Mycroft Holmes admits to have made an error?
> 
> Yes, and he regrets it deeply. Just like the man at your door.

* * *

10 days ago, it had been Mycroft at the door who had given some insight into Scarlet. Tonight, it was Sherlock Holmes, officially _not dead_.

“John…”

The door shut with a bang. 

For 231 days John had wished Sherlock to be not dead, but that didn’t mean that he wanted to speak with him _now_. 

Being polite could fuck itself. 

While John hurried the seventeen steps back to 221b, the repeated “John!” were following him, now, however not as an echo of a ghost. 

Yet, John remained stubborn. Sarah as well Harry once called it one of his best qualities. He wasn’t a quitter, stubborn to a fault. As a doctor he had fought for his patients until their last breath, and the same could have been said for his brothers in arms in the army. He would have faced Moriarty with Sherlock together, but this bastard hadn’t given him a choice. 

The fall was thrown at him, the reunion should be on his terms. 

However, Sherlock robbed him of this as well: ten minutes later, he stood in the living room of 221b. He had simply lock-picked the door and broke into the flat. 

“It was wrong to have not said anything…” This was Sherlock’s first attempt at an apology that night. “I didn’t expect you to be so affected.”

Sherlock looked like hell, but it didn’t make John rejoice. It broke his heart, twice. 

“The idea with Scarlet wasn’t that smart…” A nod was all John offered. He forced himself to not give in yet. _Steady, soldier_.

His final approach was “sentiment” that Sherlock wisely substituted with “feelings”. 

“I love you too, you git.”

“John…”

And all was said and well, and another game was on.

* * *

  
Take away and tea, talking in their chairs, the fireplace was lit. It seemed like a normal night in Baker Street, but it was anything but. Two o’clock, time for The Talk.

“This is a two-way-relationship, you know?” 

“I want to go further, John.” Impatient, demanding, all in.

“I know you do, but I am drunk and it’s late, and you just came back from God-knows-where, and it wouldn’t be right.”

“And when is right, John? I don’t want to waste more time.”

“When I’m not drunk and not fucking angry with you, Sherlock. Because you deserve better; we both do. Also, you need a shower, love. I get that you’re impatient. God, I get it, and I won’t deny any longer that I want you, too. But this isn’t the right time.”

“So: right man and right place, but not the right time.”

“Exactly. Perfectly sound analysis.”

It was the iconic line, the one Sherlock Holmes had used when John Watson had examined Jennifer Wilson’s dead body, that broke the tension. 

How much had changed since _A Study in Pink_ : the rise and fall of the great detective, as well as the realisation that he had not only a great brain but also a great heart. And if something had been proven in the last 10 days, it was that he was a good man too. His plan of introducing Scarlet as a sort of announcement of his return - “welcome back, John” - was so him: brilliant, but a bit not good. 

Sherlock Holmes was terribly human, and he would be John Watson’s man from now on. 

It had taken them 231 days.


	10. It Takes Two (To Make A Thing Go Right)

The sun had just risen, when John Watson woke up. The room was bathed in twilight, shadows making the few items look like monsters hidden in the dark, but he wasn’t afraid anymore. The past was buried, and with Sherlock Holmes at his side again, how could he be afraid of ghosts? 

“You awake…?” 

There was shuffling with the blanket, shared for the first time. The bed wasn’t exactly made for two men, but surprisingly, Sherlock wasn’t an octopus but a cuddler. For such a lanky creature, he curved himself into a perfect little spoon. 

“Mmm.” 

John Watson had missed this deep baritone. Now, it wasn’t an echo anymore, repeating his voice in his head, slowly driving him insane. The future awaited them, and apparently, it started at 4:45 in the morning.

* * *

John didn’t want to overwhelm Sherlock. He had intended to take things slow, but he should’ve known better: when Sherlock Holmes is your lover, you’ll have to enjoy being bossed around. 

“Let me” had been the only warning before Sherlock had taken him into his mouth. No, that wasn’t accurate: sucked him down, in one go, almost to the root. John had believed  _ that _ to be porn fantasy. 

Wet, hot, sloppy, but also tight and  _ fuck _ , so damn good. 

Maybe John had gasped, moaned, groaned out some of it, but frankly speaking: his best friend-turned-lover gave him the best blowjob of his adult life, and he couldn’t be arsed to think anymore.

Or apologise for getting speed, his hips acting on their own, thinking only with his cock. John’s balls were ready to burst, swollen, full, and fingers were kneading them. 

Oh, fuck.

Violinists have tactile hands, long and thick, and apparently, one could use Sherlock’s skill set of observation and deduction to find the conclusion: drive John to orgasm in 10. Together with a clever tongue. 

Fuck, he wanted to come, hard, fast, and  _ fuck _ . 

Shouts and swear words, salt and sweat, how could sex be so damn good? 

John had his hands in Sherlock’s curls, grabbing hard, holding on for dear life, and it should hurt him, but all he heard were whimpers, and him begging, “more.” 

Never before had he had someone touch his perineum outside professional capacity, and Dr John H. Watson vowed to himself to never make that error again. Sherlock went for the kill, and Captain John Watson went down.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Sherlock whimpered. He had begged John to touch him, “everything, my love” had been the hushed reply.

“Is it good?” 

A quick nod. Sherlock’s cock was hot and hard, leaking pre-come already. John had wanted to get him rid of his pyjama bottom at least, but his love couldn’t wait so long. 

Sherlock orgasmed. 

It was messy, sticky and soon the ejaculate would glue them together, but for those glorious seconds, it didn’t matter. 

When their eyes met, Sherlock’s eyes lit up. Oh God, he won’t ever look at Sherlock’s deduction’s face the same way, because, in this second, John Watson knew that he was spoiled for everything and anyone. 

“John!”

There was wonder on Sherlock’s face, the mouth shaped into a heart, and so much sentiment interwoven in his voice. 

Instead of kissing his mouth, John aimed for the forehead. 

“You wonder.” Another kiss on the right lid. “You genius,” a kiss on the left one, “my one”, and a kiss on the nose. “And only”, as he finally reached Sherlock’s mouth. 

Tears were streaming down both of their faces, but they kissed and kissed. After all, they were tears of joy. 

* * *

John was sitting in the kitchen. It was still early, not even eight yet. 

Outside 221b, one could hear the everyday-life of modern London. Rush-hour was slowing down, but the stream of tourists was peaking, cabs looking for a fare and public transport running 24/7. A maelstrom of noises, the sound of home.

Footsteps were approaching. Sherlock was naked beside his dressing gown, loosely tied around his waist. Some water pearls were running down his bare chest. His hair was still damp, unruly curls making him look years younger, more carefree and off-guard. 

John had prepared tea while his partner had showered. He had discovered some scones in the pantry, courtesy of Mrs Hudson. The jam had looked a bit questionable, but they would go for brunch soon anyway. 

Mycroft would look over Scarlet. While the older Holmes hadn’t expressed it as much, he considered it his congratulation gift: small mercies, no repeat of the “Should we expect a happy announcement at the end of the week”-text. Scarlet has been at his house already, sneaking out during the night.

John should shave. These days, his hair was more white than blond. He wore a ratty T-shirt and some pants that certainly didn’t match and probably were only good for Sherlock’s experiences, but when their eyes met, he knew that all of this didn’t matter.

“God, I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes were incredibly soft when he replied, “I love you too.”

* * *

Day 232, moving day.

John Watson was boxing up the last items in Baker Street. Sherlock - that stubborn bastard - had refused to help him. While he was stuffing his clothes into a bag, he made a mental note to go on a shopping trip soon. They needed to stock up on lube and condoms. He grinned, a tiny bit smug, and tossed his trademark jumper in the washing bin. 

One last glance, then he closed the door to the new guest room. Both men have offered John’s old bedroom to Scarlet, but they knew all too well that 9 out 10 times she would prefer to crash on the couch. However, Sherlock would love to transform it into an archive for their cases. And who knew? Maybe they would even spot a post-it with an observation, a question or even a solution from time to time in her neat handwriting. 

The doorbell rang. Short, once, with pressure. Like a client.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are love. Comments are welcome. Let’s talk about how SHERLOCK changed our lives 10 years ago!


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